Was Not Was had a gem of a track in the eighties that preached "woodwork squeaks and out come the freaks." For some reason, I couldn't get it out of my head walking around the sold-out 5th Annual Fortean Times Unconvention. Weird energy, bub, weird vibes.
Fortean Times is a highly entertaining magazine that features in-depth investigations into all things bizarre and wonderful, all creatures great and small. The term "Fortean" arises from one Charles Hoy Fort, a sort of Victorian Mulder who set out to prove that all scientific data was biased and could not explain phenomena which fell outside its realms. His "I want to believe" dictum was "One measures a circle beginning anywhere" - but that doesn't quite have the appeal of that famous tacky poster which sits in some FBI basement. Still, the man kicked alien butt, and Forteana refers to all the bits and pieces that those in control (pesky Illuminati!)would rather you didn't think about. Like a giant "Thunderbird" that was shot and killed in Arizona in the 1800's, or who really got rid of Princess Diana, and how they did it.
Split over the three floors of the University of London University Union, the Unconvention featured guests who write books that you always want to read but are too worried others will think you're being silly. Which is not to say they are silly. Jean La Fontaine is a renowned anthropologist, Dr Jack Cohen is a internationally recognised biologist and Peter Brookesmith is so paranoid his picture was in silhouette. These are the people who challenge the crud called media (including this), and spend years dedicated to finding out what really happens in this magic show we call life. Like Einstein said, "reality is an illusion, albeit a persistent one."
I am not afraid of Men In Black, especially after Hollywood joined forces with the government to paint a picture of fun lovin' dudes with slick shades and big ears. I am not afraid of ghosts, because they're just spirits who turned left when they should have turned right. I am not even afraid of dragons, because they're probably quite cuddly if you're into that sort of thing. I am however petrified of Nutters, and there seemed to be no shortage of them at the Unconvention. Now don't get me wrong, I like wearing blood stained Marilyn Manson T-shirts as much as the next guy, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with having frizzy long hair and a beard that comes straight out of the ZZ Top wardrobe. It's the eyes, man, the eyes. Beady, and "funny lookin", like "we're out to get you", which, if truth be known, I suppose they are. It was this kind of unnerving energy that filled the hall when Robin Ramsey went up and said that most of conspiracy theory was not unlike extra-terrestrial turd. Something stinks, but no-one knows what exactly it is, or how to clean it up. Bringing in a dose of reality (who's I'm not sure), he proceeded to talk about how competent Conspirators are. The conclusion: Not very. He elaborated how conspiracy theory could be a mechanism for people to deal with events that make no sense. Like JFK (oooh, where's Oliver Stone when you need him?) and Diana the Princess Deceased. The evidence is often flimsy and unsupported. The witnesses mostly goofballs. The surge in popularity of all things odd have led rise to some desparate attempts to exploit the public's fascination. For every legitimate sighting, there's the "Jesus appeared in my tomato." Ramsey took an approach I least expected to hear as my introductory lecture into Forteaology, an approach that said, "are we not trying too hard?" In a sea of weird people, this sank like Gillian Anderson's wonderbra.
George Harrison is dead. Has been for years. It's all there in the last few record covers. Clues - the truth. The next speaker, Neil Nixon, examined conspiracy theory from a media studies perspective, examining how one snake has a Medusa's head full of meaning. Semiotics, point's of view, changing ideologies. One man's abstract art is another woman's blood vial on the cover of the latest Metallica album. Conspiracy theory rests heavily on interpretation, and if you want to believe something enough, then the truth really is out there. UFO magazines have to fill the pages somehow, and as long as absurdity can nestle between the "Royal Family are Drug Lords" and the "Sex-god alien fathered my child", it will always be greeted with a certain amount of scepticism. Which is not really what I wanted to hear at the Fortean Times, but certainly lent a strong amount of credibility to the proceedings.
In between a few beers and a Jesus-was-really-a-nasty-fellow-who-murdered- his-political-rival John-the-Baptist-as-proven-by-Leonardo da Vinci-lecture, standard afternoon banter, I felt more settled. The scary characters are just that: gentle, anarchist-loving folk who do their thing like anyone else. There was this one woman though, about 4ft8, big almond eyes, stretched skin that looked like it belonged to someone else. She was no doubt, a representative from the notorious Grey alien clan. She fitted in well.
I almost trampled over Clive Anderson is my rush to get to the Diana Conspiracies lecture, held the next morning. Immediately I noticed that the "clientele" were somewhat different - less geeky, displaying something more like curiosity than obsession. Everyone packed into the hall to hear what really happened. Ian Simmons, a contributing editor to Fortean Times teased us with references to the ideas behind conspiracies, and why people needed to find meaning behind the world's most fascinating princess plunging into a Parisian tunnel.
And then he tucked in:
All conspiracy theory has its roots in inconsistencies. There are "facts" that just don't add up. Like the JFK assassination, like CIA mind experiments, like Gulf War veteran sickness. Just so happens, with Diana, there are loads of them. Like why the 17 cameras in the tunnel weren't working THAT night. Like who were the other two paparazzi that no-one knew, and who were the only ones to escape being arrested. Like, why was the braking mechanism in the Merc removed 6 weeks earlier. Like why did the ambulance take 2 hours to drive through a 45 minute route to the hospital. There are dozens more that nestle neatly between psychotic fascination and libel.
I'm not going to get into how they did it (another cabal of CIA drug-runners altogether), but these are some of the ideas as to who did it. Briefly:
1) The Royal Family - Diana was rumoured to be 6 weeks pregnant, marriage to a Moslem by the future king's mother could not take place. She was meddling in politics, she was a time bomb. MI5 and the CIA assisted in getting her wiped out. The paparazzi were a convenient scapegoat to divert attention to some blatant inconsistencies in the investigation.
2) Chinese Arms industry - Diana had just cost them billions, the biggest land mine manufacturers in the world. She was taking on a very dangerous industry. She had to be stopped. The way a car is stopped when it crashes into a concrete wall.
3) Drug lords - Dodi was the hit, Diana was the message ("we don't care who you are"). A vial of cocaine was CONFIRMED to be found in her bag. Bet you didn't hear that in the press, but it's in the police report (supposedly). Dodi reeked of Bad Karma with drug dealers, arms dealers, everyone really. Not the kind of guy a nice princess should be hanging with.
4) Satanic ritual - The car crashed into the 13th pillar, on a site that has been a Satanic hot spot for centuries. She was the princess that had to be sacrificed, and the whole plot was organised by those drug-peddling Royals who are seriously into their black magic.
5) Elton John - his career was flagging. Candle in the Wind (Diana version) was heard before her death! Someone, somewhere swears it. Hooked up with the Floral Association. Yes, now it all makes sense.
There were dozens of others, most of which were laughed at by everyone. Even weird folk maintain some tennis grip on reality.
Dealers were selling all sorts of alternative media spew, from The Church of SubGenius to Satanic decor, alien coffee mugs to Druidic jewelry. It was bizarre bric-a-brac, from ludicrous publications ("Charles gives Diana her last Kiss of Death") to controlled psychic experiments. The Association for the Scientific Study of Anomolous Phenomena (ASSAP) hijacked a room and funneled crowds through a range of experiments, testing ESP, remote viewing and water diving amongst other cool bar tricks. I tried to tip the scales with my mind, but all I got was a headache. And the image of a house that was telepathised into my brain was supposed to be noughts-and-crosses, but show me divining rods and I'll part the Red Sea. The results of the two day experiment proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that doubt lies somewhere deep in the shadows.
If Conspiracy is really just Paranoia's girlfriend, and aliens a muddle of dreams, hallucinations are side effects of some haywire CIA mind experiments, then it's a pretty safe guess that life is simple. We are born, and we die. We are awake, and we sleep. We never have dark, dangerous thoughts because it's wrong. We never do bad things because that would be naughty. Angels are playing the harps up in heaven, and Father Christmas is ho-ho-ho-ing somewhere up North. It all makes sense.
If you choose to trust our leaders and our information, it's double whiplash when you find out that the US Government has not told us a fraction of everything, and Santa Claus smokes crack with the Easter Bunny. Disinformation is the phlegm in the froggy throat of modern world, and to ignore it is to be blissfully ignorant. To fight it is to be geekish, paranoid, anoraked and neurotic. In the middle lies curiosity and awareness. An old Greek proverb says it all: "When you hear there are plenty of cherries, always carry a small basket." To visit Forteanaland, be sure to leave plenty of room in your head.
